GOOD-BYE.
Arthur Fletcher received his brother's teaching as true, and took his brother's advice in good part,--so that, before the morning following, he had resolved that however the deep the wound might be, he would so live before the world, that the world should not see his wound.What people already knew they must know,--but they should learn nothing further either by words or by signs from him.He would, as he had said to his brother, 'have it out with Emily'; and then, if she told him plainly that she loved the man, he would bid her adieu, simply expressing regret that their course for life should be divided.He was confident that she would tell him the entire truth.She would be restrained neither by false modesty, nor by any assumed unwillingness to discuss her own affairs with a friend so true to her as he had been.He knew her well enough to be sure that she recognized the value of his love though she could not bring herself to accept it.There are rejected lovers who, merely because they are lovers, become subject to the scorn and even the disgust of the girls they love.
But again there are men who, even when they are rejected, are almost loved, who are considered to be worthy of the reverence, almost of worship;--and yet the worshippers will not love them.
Not analysing all this, but somewhat conscious of the light in which this girl regarded him, he knew that what he might say would be treated with deference.As to shaking her,--as to talking her out of one purpose and into another,--that to him did not for a moment seem to be practicable.There was no hope of that.He hardly knew why he should endeavour to say a word to her before he left Wharton.And yet he felt that it must be said.Were he to allow her to be married to this man, without any further previous word between them, it would appear that he had resolved to quarrel with her for ever.But now, at this very moment of time, as he lay in his bed, as he dressed himself in the morning, as he sauntered about among the new hay-stacks with his pipe in his mouth after breakfast, he came to some conclusion in his mind very much averse to such quarrelling.
He had loved her with all his heart.It had not been mere drawing-room love begotten between a couple of waltzes, and fostered by five minutes in a crush.He knew himself to be a man of the world, and he did not wish to be other than he was.He could talk among men as men talked, and act as men acted;--and he could do the same with women.But there was one person who had been to him above all, and round everything, and under everything.There had been a private nook within him into which there had been no entrance but for one image.There had been a holy of holies, which he had guarded within himself, keeping it free from all outer contamination for his own use.He had cherished the idea of a clear fountain of ever-running water which would at last be his, always ready for the comfort of his own lips.Now all his hope was shattered, his trust was gone, and his longing disappointed.But the person was the same person, though she could not be his.The nook was there, though she would not fill it.The holy of holies was not less holy, though he himself might not dare to lift the curtain.The fountain would still run,--still the clearest fountain of all,--though he might not put his lips to it.He would never allow himself to think of it with lessened reverence, or with changed ideas as to her nature.
And then, as he stood leaning against a ladder which still kept its place against one of the hay-stacks, and filled his second pipe unconsciously, he had to realize to himself the probable condition of his future life.Of course she would marry this man with very little further delay.Her father had already declared himself to be too weak to interfere much longer with her wishes.
Of course Mr Wharton would give way.And then,--what sort of life would be her life? No one knew anything about the man.
There was an idea that he was rich,--but wealth such as his, wealth that is subject to speculation, will fly away at a moment's notice.He might be cruel, a mere adventurer, or a thorough ruffian for all that was known of him.There should, thought Arthur Fletcher to himself, be more stability in the giving and taking of wives than could be reckoned upon here.He became old in that half-hour, taking home to himself and appreciating many saws of wisdom and finger-direction experience which hitherto had been to him matters almost of ridicule.But he could only come to this conclusion,--that as she was still to be to him his holy of holies though he might not lay his hand upon the altar, his fountain though he might not drink of it, the one image which alone could have filled that nook, he would not cease to regard her happiness when she should have become the wife of this stranger.With the stranger himself he never could be on friendly terms;--but for the stranger's wife there should always be a friend, if the friend were needed.
About an hour before lunch John Fletcher, who had been hanging about the house all the morning in a manner very unusual to him, caught Emily Wharton as she was passing through the hall, and told her that Arthur Fletcher was in a certain part of the grounds and wished to speak to her.'Alone?' she asked.'Yes, certainly alone.' 'Ought I to go to him, John?' she asked again.
'Certainly I think you ought.' Then he had done his commission and was able to apply himself to whatever business he had in hand.